


Great and Greater

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Enemies, Foreshadowing, Historical, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 11:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17724227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: June 1775. During America's War of Independence, England formally requests 200,000 troops from the Russian Empress. He is denied. Also, Russia shows a spark of interest in our favorite rebellious colony.





	Great and Greater

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically how it went when Britain requested help from Russia during the Revolutionary War. Her Imperial Majesty thought it was pointless, that the colonies were bound to win independence sooner or later, and she even wrote King George a letter full of unsolicited advice. You can read a little more about it [here](https://www.jstor.org/stable/1836701?seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents). Also, Catherine the Great was awesome (and known for being pretty sexually liberated), so I'd totally recommend [reading about her too](https://www.biography.com/people/catherine-ii-9241622). Finally, heck yeah, USUK/Rusame tensions. Thank you, Kat, for characterizing England so perfectly for me. Delicious.

The Winter Palace felt unusually stuffy. High-vaulted ceilings and towering windows did little to dispel the sobriety from the hall. From his place beside Her Imperial Majesty, Russia caught the skeptical accent to her features. Otherwise, Catherine the Great appeared open, compassionate. Her blossoming role as a world mediator made her diplomatic; however, it didn't make her any less wary of deals she found simply _sour_.

Now, Great Britain was the recipient of her blended emotions. Lucky him, Russia thought, to be surrounded by so much _Greatness_ at once. His attention flicked to his wrist, the pale stretch of skin there, and he tugged his glove down over it. Better to focus on that than the sorry display in front of him.

If he did look up, he would see that England groomed himself well. His crimson jacket was garish, it would make him an easy target if he ever were out on the field, but there was a sense of regality there as well. And a promise: Red was the color of blood, which he intended to spill as often as necessary until his war was won. His buttons were polished, his badges shined, and his boots were glossed to an impressive glow. But his _face_ …

Dark bruises shadowed green eyes. His hair stuck out in every direction, as though he'd raked his fingers through too many times. He looked thinner. Gaunt, even. Standing there, with his hands tucked neatly behind his back, the Great British Empire made quite an elegant corpse.

Russia's sigh was soft. Losing a war with his own colony… He might feel bad for the man, if it weren't his _fault_ in the first place. _Provoking useless quarrels_ , Catherine had told him privately. His gaze returned to his empress.

“I will offer a commercial treaty,” Catherine was saying in that pleasant, but authoritative, way she had. “But troops? No. No, I’m afraid your spokesman misunderstood me. I agreed to send troops under the impression that they would be dispatched to _Spain_. It is positively out of the question for me to send soldiers to America. This is your fight, Arthur.”

Russia glanced back at their blonde guest. A dark agitation crackled beneath England’s features. Russia could sense it. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it brought a blossom of amusement to his chest. Then, Catherine continued.

“Though, if I might offer some advice?” The empress leaned forward a bit. Her tone shifted, as though scolding. “You know I hold you in high regard, Arthur. Which is why I tell you this: The colonies will become independent. In my lifetime, in fact. The best you can hope for now is to reconcile with your former subjects.”

A note of finality hung in the air. Russia watched England, waiting for a response. An abrupt departure, perhaps. Silent, he adjusted his scarf.  

England worked over the information without a word. His eyes flicked from the throne, to Russia, and then shuttered. His tongue came out to dampen cracked lips. Russia noticed a split of dried blood there. England wasn’t staying hydrated, he surmised, and the cold couldn’t help either. Regardless, England drew himself up tall. His hands folded deliberately in front of him.

“Ah. I see.” There was an edge to his voice, even as he forced it to evenness. “I appreciate your council.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say. Russia knew it from the twitch in his jaw. “I do ask you not to underestimate the Crown, Empress. We do not intend to lose this war.”

England scarcely waited for a dismissal before whirling from the hall. Russia watched him go, brows raised. He’d handled the denial gracefully—On the surface. The look in his eyes, though, was more than telling. Murderous. Russia was familiar with looks like that. He smoothed down the front of his coat and made his way from the throne.

“Do you think he’s upset with us, Vanya, dear?”

Russia turned back with a bow of the head. A little smile quirked the corner of his lips. “Livid. But he remembers his manners. That is good.”

“That is good,” Catherine confirmed.

Russia continued toward the door. He felt eyes travel down the back of his body. His skin prickled beneath that gaze. He’d seen the Empress give it to other “favorites” within her council. Her voice caught him at the exit.

“Vanya?”

“Yes, Empress?” He cocked a brow over his shoulder. Her smile snagged his eye.

“You won’t be gone long, will you? I hoped for company this evening.”

Russia smirked to himself. Shook his head. “Any man in this palace would die for the opportunity, Empress.”

“I should hope so. Goodnight, Vanya.”

Russia nodded. Then, when his Empress did not continue, he shouldered past heavy double doors, into a corridor that swallowed sound. Muted footsteps fell against the tile. A second pair joined in.

“And just _what_ was _that?_ ” An accented voice struck his ears. He kept walking. England followed. “I come to you, peacefully, even with a bloody bouquet of those stupid sunflowers—You wouldn’t believe my trouble, managing to keep them alive in your frozen _wasteland_ —and you just _stand_ there, letting her tell me… What? That I’ll lose this war and that she’s too frightened to step in like a proper soldier should?”

Russia glanced over his shoulder, down at the fuming empire. England had to walk briskly to match his stride. He gestured while he spoke, as though performing some wild incantation. Any composure had slipped in his passion.

“Is this you asking for war with me?” England demanded. “What, you still pissed over that Seven Years incident? Come now, talk some _sense_ into that woman!”

 _Sense_. Russia arched a brow and turned to face the country before him. His scarf hid the bottom half of his face until he tugged it down, not wanting to muffle his voice.

“I do not know that you’re the one to be giving advice about ‘sense’ at the moment.” Russia straightened, hands at his sides. He wouldn’t leave it at that, though, even if the man _had_ insulted his empress. He sighed. “I do not want a war between us. You know I have great respect for you, England. Your king?” He shrugged. “Not so much. But that is understandable, no?”

Russia dropped his voice, eyes level on England’s own. Wall-mounted lanterns twisted the shadows in a magnificent pirouette. Fire reflected in both their eyes.

“They say he has gone mad. I trust you will not be following down that path yourself? War does things to a man.”

England stared back at him. His face went blank again, an attempt at serenity. The dark flicker in his gaze gave him away.

“How does one stop when he’s already falling?” The words trickled past England’s lips, quiet. It was a leak. Something not meant to be spoken, and certainly not meant to be heard—Least of all by Russia himself. England continued quickly. “I don’t _care_ if you hate George. This isn’t a matter of, ‘Oh, I don’t like you, ew.’ This is so much bloody _bigger_ than—Russia, this is _Alfred_. I need your… _Help_ me.”

 _Alfred_. So that was what they called this fierce little colony. Russia made a mental note.

“My personal feelings about your king are irrelevant.” He shrugged again. “What matters is, Her Imperial Majesty does not agree with his agenda. She does not think it wise to interfere with your battles. This America—Alfred, as you call him…” Russia paused. “You have…personal feelings for this colony, yes?”

It would make sense. Russia had seen countries fight hard for their colonies. He’d done fighting himself. But that emerald blaze in England’s eyes… This one was personal.

Russia gestured with a hand. “Walk with me, England. We do not talk much these days. I see you are distraught, and with good reason. Perhaps, with a bit of conversation, you may convince my Empress and me to offer our aid after all.”

He began to walk.

There was a pause. Then, England scurried along behind him. There was a renewed spring to his step. Russia recognized it. _Hope_. One of his favorite flavors.

“Finally. You’re going to see _reason_. Now. Personal feelings aside, this is my _land_. I’ve beaten out Spain and I’ve beaten out France. Now the bastards are poking their noses into my little civil war, and they’re helping the rebelling side. It’s unprofessional. This isn’t just some island, or a petty border dispute. When he’s grown, I’m sure that America—”

England stopped. Russia glanced at him. _Almost said too much there?_ England cleared his throat, backpedaled.

“Look. I hate France and I would want nothing more than to shave a stripe down the center of his skull. But this is not some funny _prank_. I will go to war with him too. If he’s interfering in a civil war, tipping the balance… You know exactly how this looks.”

Russia hummed. His eyes flickered to England’s mouth, watched a flood of information pour from it. He breathed a chuckle.

“An attack on France’s hair would probably be worse than an attack on his military,” Russia offered. He nodded to a corridor on his left, so England knew which way to follow, and he moved ahead. “You are very good at framing your position, I will give you that.”

“Thank you.”

Russia paused. The hall grew dark as evening settled over the windows. He would have to light more torches soon. He turned then.

“May I ask you something?”

England took a slow inhale, tucked a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Please.”

Russia spread his hands in front of him. “Say you do manage to…subdue this colony of yours. How do you envision the future?” He tilted his head, inquisitive. “He is fighting hard. That is the reason Her Imperial Majesty has taken any notice of him at all; he is fighting so hard that it’s drawn the attention of European powers. Someone who battles that fiercely… Do you think he will stay under your thumb, just because you’ve beaten him once?”

Something shifted behind England’s eyes. He drew himself up straighter. A defensive stance. The lines of his mouth grew taut.

“You don’t know him as I know him. If he’s beaten, it will show him reason. Right now, he’s too proud to listen to me. Too worked up, as though it’s _my_ fault.” England snorted. “It will take time for him to find peace in his failure. However, I do believe that, eventually, he will understand.”

Russia studied England’s face. His words were spoken with such force. Such _certainty._ His eyes almost held the same conviction. Almost.

Vaguely, Russia wondered how many times a mad man must lie to himself before even he begins to believe his lies.

“Do you not think beating him will make him _more_ proud?” Russia considered, then kept walking. “I do not know this colony like you do. Perhaps that is also part of my unwillingness to fight. I much prefer an enemy that I know. Intimately.” He tossed a shrug behind him. “You know what they say, about keeping friends close and all, yes?”

England said nothing, so Russia filled the space.

“Will you tell me about this colony? You are, undoubtedly, the one who knows him best. The rest of us are curious who could be capable of giving the Crown such trouble.”

England still didn’t speak. When Russia looked back at him, he was standing still. Fire sparked in his gaze. It could have melted all the snow in Saint Petersburg.

“No.” England’s voice was a crack of a whip. Russia turned to face it fully. His eyes searched England’s own, but the shorter man had shut him out again. “Alfred shouldn’t be a concern. The rebels are the problem. And we both know it. But clearly, you lot can’t stop sucking your thumbs, too afraid of—What? Not being besties with your enemy?”

England scoffed.

“Excuse me.” The redcoat turned and Russia watched, made no move to stop him. “I think I have an appointment watching snow try to melt.”

The clicking of boot heels vanished down the corridor. Something had happened, Russia was beginning to understand. Something he’d said that went beyond matters of war. Perhaps it had been that dreadful word: _Intimate._ After all, the feelings reflected on England’s face were ones with which Russia was acutely familiar. Possession. Jealousy.

At the end of the long hall, a door slammed. A thin crackle of tension remained, clinging to the walls like tar. Russia had been called many things in his time. He was Ivan the Terrible. Ivan the Coward. Ivan…

Who was he to England, he wondered? His eye caught back on his bare wrist. He readjusted his glove and kept walking. A stream of aliases ran through his mind.

Ivan the Terrible.

Ivan the Coward.

Ivan… England’s newest worry.

 


End file.
